His Own
by Dyscord
Summary: Allan's reflections on the harshness of life, and a dark, twisted romance. AllanDjaq. Spoilers season 2.


His Own (oneshot)

Second Season spoilers, Allan/Djaq

Rated: PG13

Author's Note: This is an idea that occurred to me in bed one night, and once I started writing it it sort of got away from me. Just to warn you: This piece is officially the most angsty, dramatic, depressing, tragic, dark, emo fic I have ever, ever written. Reading this fic may cause fits of depression, and loss of your will to live. Do let me know if I'm laying it on too thick. Like I said, it kinda got away from me.

However, I'm hoping some of you will enjoy it, despite its angsty nature.

-Discord

"He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man." – Samuel Johnson

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Shame is not a useful emotion, Allan reflected sullenly, pouring himself yet another mug of wine. Shame doesn't spur you on, keep you going, or help you survive, the way fear, rage, or longing might. It doesn't feed you, shelter you, or keep you safe. All shame does is sit on your belly like an iron weight until you feel that you can carry it no longer.

He cast a gloomy eye about his surroundings. Guy had arranged for him a room in the castle. It was draughty, it was cold, and it got very little direct sunlight through its single, minute window, but Allan was content. At least he had a roof over his head, for once, and a few creature comforts for his work. The trouble was, in the evenings when the loneliness began to set in, there was nothing to do to ease his mind but pace, and dream, and drink. Every night, it was all he could do. Eventually he'd settle silently at his tiny, uneven wood table, staring into the flickering light of a tallow candle, downing mug after mug of wine – not in cheerful revelry, the way he had in the past, but in sullen habit and silent desperation. It had been his father's favorite pastime too, when Allan was small, but he tried to push that thought from his mind. He hated the thought of becoming his father, that foul old drunkard who he had regarded always with a mix of longing, fear, and hatred. Guilt stirred in Allan's belly as he caught sight of his reflection in his tankard of wine, and he tried to shake it off as he always had, but it gripped him in spite of all his efforts.

Guilt. It was as useless and hindering as shame, and just as cruel. Before he met Robin, Allan had understood this. Life is a hard game, he knew, and survival sometimes required a compromise of your morals. How could you live, if you carried every bad decision or selfish act with you every day of your life? You just have to take a deep breath, shake the guilt from your shoulders like an old cloak, and keep moving. Just keep moving.

Robin could never understand this. Allan realized that now. A man with all his basic needs taken care of devotes his life to endeavors higher than himself, to principles, to martyrdom, to religion, or to love. A man from the gutter, however, devotes himself to his next meal and bed. Just keep moving. For although Robin dearly loved the poor, he could never understand them, never understand the depths the human soul is capable of when pushed to the breaking point, the point where men became animals bent on nothing but survival. Allan had known this world, before Robin had swept in and taken him from it.

Allan shook his head uncomfortably at the thought, and took another sip of the blood-red wine. Sometimes, (when he had sunk to the very bottom of the tankard, that place where rationality is held at bay and our inner desires have room to surface) Allan wondered if he'd be better off if Robin had left him there, in the gutter, surviving on thievery and trickery. Somewhere along the journey at Robin's heels, Allan had lost his ability to shake off guilt like he used to. It clung to him like sodden clothing in a freezing river, pulling him down with its incredible weight. And there Robin stood on the shore, dry and laughing, looking down on him for not being able to swim.

It all came down to power, when you really boiled it down. Robin expected loyalty because he'd always had it – power doesn't exist without underlings to fawn on you. Worse still, he expected everyone to devote themselves to his cause as fervently and obsessively as he himself did. He would never be happy with you if you just did as you were told, you had to believe in it, as well. Following Robin was like being a child again, scampering at his uncaring drunkard father's heels searching for some scrap of approval. At least Guy, for all his faults (and they were many, Allan knew full well) expected nothing but a job well done, and at the end, he was paid for it. It was simple, clear, businesslike. No need for guilt to gum up the works. Guy's power over Allan only extended as far as his purse-strings; Robin's power extended to his soul.

With a sigh that turned into a rattling cough, Allan set down his half-full mug on the rickety table and pushed back his chair restlessly. He was sick of this room, but there was nowhere to go.

Three knocks, timid and shy, collided with his door so softly he almost didn't hear them. He raised his eyebrows, surprised at the late visit, and heaved himself labouriously to his feet. With an unglamourous drunken stumble, Allan made his way to the door and opened it halfway.

A tiny, slip of a girl stood in the hallway, holding out before her a tray with fruit and a wineskin. Her face was obscured by a hood, but Allan was too tipsy to think much of it.

"I didn't send for this," he said blearily. The girl nodded.

"I know," she said softly, and even in his inebriated state Allan could not miss her musical, Saracen lilt.

"Djaq?" he hissed. She pulled back her hood to reveal her face, and he grabbed her by the elbow, pulling her inside and closing the door behind them.

"Christ, Djaq, what are you doing here? If they catch you…"

"'They'? Don't you mean 'we'?" She said delicately, placing her tray on his table. "You are on 'their' side now, aren't you?"

Allan was a little stung, but hid it well. "Well… you know," he stuttered. "I'm not… going to turn you in or nothing. I'm not that far gone."

Djaq nodded solemnly. "I know, Allan." Her liquid brown eyes seemed to look into him, far deeper than he liked, and he broke her gaze.

"What is it, then?" he slurred in a deliberately businesslike tone. "Robin need a favour? You want information? Or have you just come to threaten me a bit?"

"You've been drinking," she observed coolly. "I haven't come here on Robin's behalf."

A glimmer of curiosity and something very near hope sprang up in Allan's chest. "No? You came on your own?"

Djaq nodded slowly. "If Robin finds out, he will be furious, but I had to see you. Or… I wanted to see you. I miss you."

Allan froze, and his tongue refused to work. Djaq was looking up at him with a kind of vulnerable earnestness, biting her lip and waiting for his reply. Even in such a charged, tender moment she never released her sense of rationality. She spoke as though she had rehearsed every word, and was waiting for him to say his lines.

Allan swallowed. "You… I mean I… I miss you too," he finally said, lamely, internally cursing himself. For a man who bragged of the quickest tongue in Nottingham, he had suddenly lost all of his fast-talking talents, feeling like a schoolboy trying to talk to his crush.

Djaq took a step forward, like a moth drawn to a flame. "I hate that you've left the camp," she admitted, an edge of barely-suppressed emotion threatening to choke her. "I hate that I can't even mention your name anymore without the others avoiding my eyes. I hate what you've done and I hate what's happened to us because of it. But beyond all reason, Allan-A-Dale, I cannot hate _you_. I want to, sometimes," she added, with a bite of hurt. "But I cannot."

Allan didn't know what to say. For the first time in his pathetic struggle of a life, he was utterly speechless. Some long-hidden instinct told him to hold her, but he couldn't even bring himself to do that. Instead he reached forward and took her hand, shyly, and held it reassuringly, his face bright red.

She stared at their intertwined fingers as though hypnotized. The silence threatened to swallow her up, and she grew tired of waiting for Allan to speak. "I shouldn't have come," she said softly. "I just… we didn't have time to talk, before you left, and I wanted… to let you know. Even after everything you've done, you deserve that much. I really miss you, Allan."

A long moment passed, and Djaq struggled to think of the right thing to say. All the words she'd practiced to herself, the speeches and the lectures seemed to fall away from her numbed brain. She couldn't face him; she'd thought she could, but she was too frightened. Shamefaced, she turned to leave and Allan, shocked out of his stunned silence, held her hand tighter and pulled her towards him. She stumbled and tripped, falling clumsily towards him. He caught her and held her, staring transfixed into those endless brown eyes.

"Djaq," he murmured, and before he could stop himself, he had pressed his lips hungrily to hers.

At first, she neither resisted nor participated, torn between disapproval and powerful desire. She knew she should pull back, put a stop to this mad feeling, but the smell of him, the warmth of his skin and the taste of wine on his lips was too rich and heady for her to resist.

Their hearts hammered wildly inside their chests, pounding a rhythm in harmony with one another. He pulled her tightly against him and trailed one finger down her spine, making her catch her breath. Despite all her time in England, Djaq had always retained a hint of the mystery of the East to Allan. Her ink-black curls smelled very faintly of exotic spices, and her eyes reflected the hue of foreign skies. She was utterly irresistible.

Djaq was scarcely aware that they had gradually inched towards Allan's little cot, unsure whether it was her will or his which had brought them there. He began to lower her towards the bed, and a gasp of sudden fear caught in her throat. "No," she hissed softly. She couldn't afford this. She couldn't let herself be split in two. The price was too high.

He paused, pulling away slightly but keeping his hands around her waist. Before he could speak, she had placed one delicate finger against his lips.

"Prove yourself to me first," she said softly. "Prove that you know it was a mistake. Show me you have changed, that you're still a good man underneath it all. Win yourself back into Robin's favor. Make amends for what you have done."

Allan froze. No. No, she couldn't do this to him. She couldn't offer salvation and take it away so quickly. It wasn't right. It wasn't _fair_.

"Robin," he whispered, barely audibly. He swallowed hard. "It's always… it's always about Robin."

"It's about right and wrong," she said defensively. "You know the difference, deep down. You're just pretending that you don't."

He released her, taking a step back, a sneer of distaste on his face. Anger smouldered in his belly, flames of rage licking up his throat and exploding from his mouth in harsh, cruel words. "What, did he send you here to trick me, then? Fool me into fighting for the almighty cause? Is he using you against me, now?" Allan knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he sounded paranoid and mad, that he was losing his grip, but he didn't care. He was drunk, he was hurt, and the last thing in the world that mattered had been taken away. By Robin. She had chosen Robin over him. She wanted him to sacrifice himself, become Robin's puppet, and he could never, never be that again. He clenched his jaw, his lip curling. "Tell me, Djaq, did he tell you to offer yourself to me as payment? Or was that your own idea, you common kitchen slut?"

She was stung, and his words cut right down to the core of her. "Just listen to me, Allan, please…"

It was all about power, at the end of the day. Those who had it, and those who followed at their heels. Robin could no longer control Allan, but Djaq could. She could if he let her. And Djaq belonged to Robin, the way he once had and never would again.

He refused. He was done with orders and one-sided allegiances. He would be his own man.

"Get out," he snarled lowly. Djaq froze, tears in her eyes. "You heard me, get out, go on," he shouted. "GET OUT!"

He slammed his fist on his table, causing his mug to spill and a gush of dark wine to flow across the tabletop and onto the floor. Djaq looked at him with a look of fear mixed with anger and deep grief. It was a look he had seen on his mother's face many a time, when his father had stumbled home, drunk and angry. It sickened him.

There was an almost imperceptible tightening of her jaw, a look of resignation and steely hardness as something within her broke and was buried away. She brushed her tears away and drew forth her hood, dashing from the room and slamming the door behind her. The small room echoed with her absence.

Allan sank down into one of his chairs, feeling suddenly weak. This was the price of being his own man; he would always _be_ on his own.

He caught his own eye in the puddle of red-black wine, and didn't like what he saw there.


End file.
